Share this:

Like this:

rest
the falling to neutral
the halt from inside
drowning in delivered expectations
rights for understanding

left to hopes on future intelligence;
the end
cannot decide for all to sweep
the lower range

my own
i try to hide frustrations
live with pain
crown the day with plans

for all
you thought redundancy cared?
it will
yet know also
that whatever comes to pass
graveyards will not sacrifice
the me
the self
the part that says i have rights

too

the part that wants a normal life
GONE
the part that wants humanity to find itself
in every future protected
GONE

you know what i see when i see?
evil men
lots of evil men
working to make a mockery out of good intentions

that’s what i see
that’s what i cannot FIGHT

when we don’t educate our young our people
we are left with nothing

decimate the teachers
frack their unions
nothing ….

rest
that crawl into a shell
that escape to visit God on the path of dreams
i say ‘hi’ you know
relate tidings of ‘down here’
and mostly
that giant Void
that ever-changing conglomeration of Light
says to not worry
that good will find its end for us
somehow
somehow ….

rest
i need that rock
that shadow of a rock

and all that is here is my dwindling determination
and a small bit of tenacity (insanity)
that finds its way to a smile

Share this:

Like this:

some good news …. the amount of Medicaid spend down has been adjusted downward, so that getting a “raise” in Social Security doesn’t result in a net-loss. according to the paperwork, the lower insurance-cost is due to a “change in Federal Law or state policy.”

It doesn’t say WHAT law or policy —and no reference. so still don’t know if the insurance cost was changed only for myself, or if my letters were of any help to ALL who experienced the same strange result. however, it appears that at least myself, or somebody — was heard on the matter and the changes where made.

would jump in the air, but am too drained tonight. probably go to bed early and thank God for small favors.

they say the squeaky wheel gets the grease — hopefully it’s not just my wheel

Share this:

Like this:

you know when you’re sitting in the doctor’s office … waiting and waiting. you pick up a magazine–you start to think about AFTER you get done with your rectal probe. how that big mac is going to taste when you stop for lunch. how the air is going to feel streaming through the car windows as you sing along to “we will rock you!”

now think how it would be, if you didn’t have that. if you are sitting in that waiting room, with no access to your imagination. all that your brain can process are the immediate surroundings and the fact that you aren’t going anywhere, you have nothing to do, and no way to IMAGINE it getting better. even magazine articles are flat, and void …. because you can’t IMAGINE those homes and beaches or fine dining. they are just pictures, and the words are just words.

now think how that would be–if instead of a waiting room, you were in a cell. locked in, unable to leave and unable to IMAGINE anything other than that cell. days and days go by ………

you become TRAINED to experience fear every time you hear the key go into the lock … a basic source of imagination in the form of anticipation. but that is ALL. you can’t remember your days at the beach. you can’t think how you will be at that beach AGAIN, how this ……… THIS, must only be temporary. no.

it is a forever, in each second. each minute. sleep is not sleep, because without imagination your dreams are flat and toneless — holding only escape because unconscious is better than awake. not really, though– because there IS no escape. when someone traps your body– you always have your mind to escape the reality of your situation. like on an airplane, or crowded bus — you don’t THINK about where you are.

when someone traps your MIND as well as your body — where you are is all you can think-about. no imagination, because the drugs some bone-waggin dictator prescribed– they slammed you with them. mainlined the drugs so your body has no choice.

so you sit in a cell. look at the wall …. that has “F*ck You” scratched into the lead paint over the metal bed bolted to the floor. are glad you are just no longer tied down, but it feels something like being in a capsule in outerspace. you can’t SEE any reality but for the metal toilet in one corner, and the strange hue to the faces of workers, as they stare through the two-inch glass windows at you.

you wonder why they serve you food with plastic forks that don’t work on cutting meat or scooping pudding. so you use your fingers, washing them in the metal toilet when you are done. your brain finally registers that the walls, and even the paint on the bed — are all scratched with names, profanity. covered. the night before, you took the pudding and wrote with it on the wall, over the “f*ck you.” and changed the “f” to a “B” and the “u” and “c” to “o’s” you were finally able to sleep after that ….. in that bed, under the big “f*ck you” that now said “Book you.”

still puzzling … looking at the ceiling one day, you see something sticking out of the vent. it looks like a lever, but is it? standing on the bed, you work it loose — and it’s a sharp. wedged into the vent, and apparently what was used to scratch all the graffiti on the walls and bed. suddenly the ones that say something like “use it to make yourself bleed — kill yourself, why don’t you!” made sense.

i am studying this metal thing, when the psych techs come to the door to take me outside. before i hand it over to them– this piece of metal …. i scratch on the inside of the door to this cell, this prison: NO– f*ck YOU. gently set the sharp in the psych tech’s hand — knowing it was just going to go right back up where i found it. you could see that information on his face.

the room was one they reserved for those who mouthed off a little too much, or didn’t do exactly as they were told. it was the inside one, with no picture-window. in some ways, the ones with windows were worse because they were covered with only wire mesh, and the cell got cold at night. most didn’t mind, because at least their friends could sneak them puffs of cigarettes through the wires.

i keep saying some day i’ll write a real story — bring it all out to the front. but i couldn’t even write most of this one, without using the pronoun “you” in place of “i.” what we do to protect ourselves. sometimes i think about the person who scratched the big “F*ck You” on that wall. if they ended up killing themselves, or if the system did it for them with the slow-kill of drug after drug.

i think about what it means to be stubborn; to survive. i think about my own guilt and lack of compassion, how i am no better than so many. because even today, i would still write: “NO–f*ck YOU.” i’d do it again and again. only to walk away.